


Spice

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Clubbing, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few moments of Jim and Spock in a club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spice

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sorry it cuts off; I just didn’t have the time for more than a ficlet...
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s something about Spock that doesn’t quite look right, tucked away in the corner of the dimly lit, neon bar. The bright lights that flash over the dance floor reflect in his dark eyes, cast down at the table. He’s got his arms crossed, his thick, woolen, grey sweater out of place amongst the crowd’s nightwear. He always says Earth is too _cold._ (Or at least, that’s what he says when Jim asks why he shivers in the tanks Jim wants to slip him into.)

But Spock has pride in his own way, and he doesn’t wilt. His shoulders are squared. Jim realizes belatedly that his own feet have stopped. He’s simply staring straight through everyone else. With a smirk, he realizes why Spock looks so unusual.

In a bar like this, someone as handsome as Spock should never be sitting _alone._

Jim snickers to himself as he finally weaves over, catching Spock’s eyes almost immediately. Spock straightens up. The small, round table and the two high chairs around it are plain and iron. Jim places the fruit concoction down, whatever it is. He ordered whatever they could make without alcohol. (Vulcans are tricky bar patrons.) Spock stares down at it while Jim swirls his own Orion sunset tea around, loaded up though it is with Orion ale. Spock’s expression is utterly blank, both before and after a sip of his drink. 

Jim pulls his chair closer to Spock’s end of the table before sitting. The music is a blaring electronic beat, so they’ll need to be closer to hear one another. And Jim wants to talk right into Spock’s ear, because that way he gets to kiss and lick and nip at the pointed tips that make Spock different, make him special. They turn Jim on so much. Or maybe he just had too much of his drink already, back at the bar while wondering how best to get Spock into the bathroom. 

“Doing okay, baby?” Jim means to ask it, close and low, but he has to shout over the music. He drapes his arm over Spock’s shoulders, his black faux-leather jacket a strange contrast to the wool. Spock glances at it.

Spock looks emotionless and uncomfortable beneath that. Jim knows him well enough to see beyond the first glance. Spock’s permanent frown deepens slightly, and he opens his mouth, but he either says something too quiet for Jim to hear or nothing at all. He doesn’t say anything more, just takes another sip of his drink.

There’s nothing logical about a trashy dive bar. Jim knew that, of course, knew that Spock wouldn’t feel perfectly at home. But Jim’s been to science seminars that meant nothing to him, into galleries too boring to explain, listened to Vulcan ballads that practically made his ears bleed. Spock can handle a little clubbing.

Spock knows that, which is probably why he doesn’t protest. Fair’s fair. ...But he doesn’t have to like it. 

The next sip Jim takes is more of a swig, big and gulping. He doesn’t need liquid courage, but he likes the slow burn and the spicy aftertaste Orion drinks give. He mainly just needs to store up on drink and then get his hand free, because after he puts his glass down, he’s putting his hand over Spock’s. Spock looks down at it immediately. His views on public displays of affection are exactly what Jim thought they would be. Jim leans in again to talk, and he loves the way Spock subtly leans back into him, always a good first officer. “I wish you’d dance with me.”

Spock pulls back, throwing a sideways look at the dance floor. He probably doesn’t consider that dancing. It takes him a minute to settle on, voice oddly higher than usual over the music but with no other intonation, “I am not trained to make such... movements.”

“You don’t have to be trained.” Jim laughs, though he knows what Spock means. He tilts his head, smiling with his eyes in that imploring way that he knows makes it hard for Spock to resist him. “I don’t want you to just sit here all night looking gloomy and awkward.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. Evidently he doesn’t think he’s gloomy and awkward, or rather, he’d prefer Jim didn’t think of him that way. “Jim, I do want to do this for you. However...” He sounds sincere, but he still trails off. 

Another glance at the busy dancers, and then he’s staring adamantly at their drinks. Jim almost wants to take pity on him and send them both home. 

But then Jim looks at Spock’s fingers beneath his own, really _looks_ at them, and with the alcohol in his system and the pounding music in his head, all he can think about is those hands on his hips. Maybe on something else. Even dressed so poorly for this, Spock’s gorgeous—his hair’s sleek and perfect, like always, his bow lips slightly wet from the drink, his body just the right shape to fit into Jim’s arms. Half the point of coming here was to show Spock off—it’s not every captain that gets to drag their sexy Vulcan boyfriend out on the town. There aren’t any other Vulcans in the club, even though it’s full of aliens. There are two Tellarites making out in the corner that are practically falling out of their clothes, and a Bolian circulating every table with a woman at it, downing all the spare drinks. If anyone in here turns out to be important in Starfleet, Spock’s never going to forgive him, as though Vulcans aren’t allowed to unwind like everyone else. 

Spock turns back to Jim as though about to say something else, but Jim’s already pressing a messy kiss to his high cheekbone and purring, “Just one dance, Mr. Spock; it won’t kill you. Once you loosen up, once you get into it, you’ll probably love it—you’ll find the way I move _fascinating,_ I’m sure...” And by that Jim means he wants to grind into Spock, sway to the music and rub his hips into Spock’s. Spock’s lips close, eyelids lowering halfway, looking over at Jim’s hand on his wrist. It’s hard to lower his voice to the sexy lull he wants, so he has to growl it like a feral Vulcan in their version of heat. (That brings him all the memories of Spock’s last _pon farr_ and gets him harder.) “I’d love to see you move like that. I know you can. Remember when you learned that striptease for my birthday three months ago? I still jerk off to that memory... it’s not fair for me to keep you all to myself; I want everyone else in this club to see what your pretty body can do...”

A soft shiver works its way through Spock’s body, and Spock breathes, “Jim—”

“Come dance with me. You know I’d let you fuck me in one of those boring lecture halls if you wanted—let me fuck you on the dance floor...” It’s a metaphor, of course, but Spock still winces, adorable even in his strength. No one else could possibly hear them. The music’s blaring, Jim’s so close, all over Spock. He nips at Spock’s jaw and nuzzles into Spock’s face, and Spock turns like he wants to kiss Jim, but won’t. “You look so good,” Jim hisses. “Even in that stupid sweater, you look like a model. I want to strip you naked and teach you how to _dance_ —I wish I could get you drunk, see you flushed and too clumsy to want anything but my cock...”

Spock’s eyebrows are knit together. He looks almost like he’s in pain, like he doesn’t understand why Jim would want such a thing or why they’re here. There’s no real shame in it; even if anyone could hear them, that’s what clubs are for. Sex, sex, more sex. Telling Spock that makes Jim so much harder than it should. “What are you doing?” Spock finally asks, quietly enough that Jim has to strain to hear it. 

Jim laughs. “Telling you how much I’d like to see you move and take you into the middle of the club and sink my cock inside you...” Jim nips Spock’s ear with a raunchy groan; his own dirty talk is making him horny. 

“Then why are you speaking to me like this?” Spock leans away from Jim’s next kiss. He looks genuinely confused, sounds strained. Jim’s confused too, and Spock responds to the look that must be on his face. “If you want me to stay with you in this club, why are you trying to make me want to go home with you to bed?”

Jim laughs loud enough that he has to mutter an apology after; he was too loud in Spock’s ear. He rewards his naïve boyfriend with a kiss for being so irresistibly dull. “Commander, we hardly need a bed to fuck...”

“ _Captain_ ,” Spock says right back, while Jim starts to kiss and suck at his neck, making his breath hitch, “we are in a crowded, public establishment...”

“That’s what bathrooms are for.” Jim runs back up to Spock’s face, and he lets go of Spock’s hand to grab Spock’s chin, holding Spock’s head to the side for a proper kiss. Spock tastes like fruit and sugar, the drink overwhelming. Spock likes bland food. Jim almost feels guilty, but then Spock’s tongue is against his, and that’s all he can think about. It’s a short kiss; Spock pulls away too soon. 

He still looks unsure. “Is this a human joke...?”

Jim snorts. “People fuck in club bathrooms all the time.”

“I find it difficult to believe that such behaviour is legal.”

“I didn’t say it was legal—”

“It would also be highly unsanitary—”

Jim kisses him again. He melts half into it, half slithers away. Jim nuzzles more into him, something less overt, and he sighs. “I love you.” He’s not just drunk; he means it, and he says it all the time. Spock returns it at more profound times, but Jim knows he means it all the time, even now. “Dance to one song with me, and then we can go home.” He doesn’t want to, and he has other plans, but Spock’s happiness is the most important thing. 

Spock concedes slowly, “One song.”

He probably wouldn’t agree if he knew how hard Jim is already, but by the time they slip out of their chairs, it’s too late. Jim clasps his fingers tight around Spock’s wrist, practically tugging Spock to the dance floor. Every alien world they visit is like this: Jim wanting to dive in and Spock, reserved but interested, following his lead, and they learn, experience, _together_. They’re a pair that’s become inseparable. They get knocked around by the many bodies crammed into the narrow rectangular space, but they never get far. Jim’s body always knows where to go to find his t’hy’la.

It’s hard to tell where one song ends and another starts, but Jim dives right in, the rhythm cruising through veins. He’s a sporadic, sloppy sort of dancer, the kind that’s all on instinct with no thought to any particular move. He just feels the vibe. Spock awkwardly mirrors him, and it’s sort of the most hilarious and cute thing Jim’s ever seen. Jim has to grab his hips so he’ll stop. 

Jim grinds into Spock’s front, and he sways a steady dip down Spock’s body, slithering into a crouch and uncoiling back up, constantly shifting from side to side. Spock stares at him, both hazy and sharp. Jim grins from ear to ear. He has to press his face right against Spock’s to shout over the music, “Do your own thing, Commander.”

Spock nods. Jim kisses him on the way back, just light. He goes back to his wild movements, falling into the beat again. His head’s fuzzy from more than one thing. The words that come in are garbled and from some language he doesn’t understand—he hasn’t got his Universal Translator in. It doesn’t matter. He’s in a club, so it’s probably about Ibiza or Riza or love. He loves all those things. There are half naked people moving all around him, but Jim only has eyes for Spock. 

Spock starts with just a slow sway, calculated and simple, and Jim smiles encouragingly. Spock’s arms lift, and on a particularly loud burst of the chorus, Jim pumps his fist in the air, while Spock puts his hands back behind his head, just like he did when he was dancing in between his strip tease. Maybe that’s the only modern dance he knows. He looks off but fluid. His moves aren’t making any sense, but his eyes are all over Jim and he tries, and every single thing he does is so inherently _Spock_ that Jim can hardly keep his hands away.

He breaks and loops one arm around Spock’s waist, holding him in tight, and the two of them dance together. Their legs tangle together, and their thighs rub, and their crotches roll into one another. Jim’s almost painfully hard already, wanting Spock so badly. He pushes that need through the bond they have. He aches for his t’hy’la to be closer all the time, even when they’re already in each other’s arms and touching everywhere. Jim wants more, more, to flatten into Spock and crush the air from his lungs with the force of a kiss, wants to be inside Spock or have Spock inside him. Spock’s hands slide down to Jim’s shoulders, like some pornographic mockery of an old time waltz.

Jim’s leaning in for another kiss when Spock shouts over the din, “That was one song.” He pulls Jim closer suddenly, a fist grabbing Jim’s hair—Jim has a sharp intake of breath at the sting, held close enough for Spock to speak right into his ear. “Perhaps... perhaps I need to reconsider your bathroom proposition...”

Spock’s hard as a rock, too. Jim rocks his hips to be sure. The energy’s crackling in the air all around them, people still dancing and drinks still flowing. 

Jim kisses Spock and leads him away, their fingers locked tightly together, full of warmth on both ends.


End file.
